


Careful

by SylvanWitch



Series: Proving the Exception [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Soul Bond, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that the better they are at their job, the more the Second Bond wants from them.  Or, how Clint and Phil turn self-denial into an art form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Careful

The Second Bond, Clint decides, is designed to kill the Bonded pair unless the Third Bond is enacted in a hurry.  Because he’s pretty sure if Phil doesn’t fuck him or let Clint fuck him, Clint is going to die of frustration.

 

Hard cock aching against the fly of his field suit, Clint tries to adjust himself on his perch without moving enough to give away his location.

 

As if sensing Clint’s discomfort, Phil’s voice, soothingly calm and dispassionate, sounds in his ear, “Status, Barton.”

 

What used to be a steadying influence serves only to drive knives of want through Clint’s gut.  He grits his teeth and answers through them, “No change.”

 

It isn’t always like this, of course.  Usually, Clint can ignore the zing of energy between them; in fact, he finds it comforting, a constant, low-level reminder that there’s one person in his life who’s aware of him.  

  
Clint would never admit it to Phil—he barely admits it to himself—but it’s nice to be needed.  For all that a Bond is supposed to be binding and Clint typically avoids commitment, Clint actually kind of likes the connection.

 

But he’s figured out in the months since Phil saved him by invoking the Second Bond against the dying pulse of Clint’s throat that when they’re working like this, communicating as they always have—unseen gestures and invisible expressions communicated by nuances of tone so subtle that to anyone else listening they’d seem monotonous—this feeling of awareness, of the line that tethers them, grows.

 

Now, with the thrum of adrenaline and the stillness of years of focus and discipline upon him, Clint can feel the connection of the Second Bond stretching between them, tensile and strong.  It vibrates with his breath and heartbeat, and through it, he feels the echo of Phil’s pulse.

 

It’s distracting as hell, fracturing Clint’s focus enough that Phil’s sharp, “Five o’clock!” startles a painful spike of electric energy through him, and he has to wait out the ensuing shiver to peer through his rifle scope to track the target as he enters the room one building over and two floors up.

 

It’s not the ideal spot for a hit, but Clint had been beggared out of choices.  It’s the best he’s got, and he does with it what he always has—makes the most.

 

In the window, an eye of ingress appears, and before the shatter-proof glass is done spidering, the man’s secretary is screaming and somewhere far off in the city a siren wails into startled life.

 

By the time the authorities arrive, Clint’s long gone, rifle broken down and stowed, pack shouldered, two buildings crossed by their rooftops and a third left behind him in a rain of shattered tiles, rust still raining down on his shoulders and into his hair as he leaps the ten feet from the jammed fire escape ladder and climbs into the waiting car.

 

Phil pulls out into traffic with a law-abiding signal and a bland expression and doesn’t say a word until they’re ten blocks from the scene of the hit.

 

“Report, Agent,” he says, but there’s something off about the request; it lacks a certain evenness of tone.  

 

Clint risks a glance on the periphery and sees a telltale brush of color across Phil’s cheek.  In profile, he looks calm except for the flush.  It could be that Phil had had to hustle to the car, but Clint knows better.  

 

“Target is neutralized, sir,” he answers, turning his eyes back to the traffic ahead of them.  Hyperaware, he takes in their surroundings—there’s a kid on a bike at two o’clock, a car up on a jack at the curb on their nine, and on their six is a florist’s truck with its right blinker rabbiting in a fashion that suggests there’s a short in the vehicle’s electrical system.

 

Even through all that, Clint feels Phil’s awareness of him, a sensation that reverberates between them in the confines of the car, gaining strength from proximity and the ebbing of adrenaline.

 

“Status,” Phil orders, but there’s an uncharacteristic breathiness in it.  As soon as Clint notes it, his eyes move away from the exterior environment to hone in on the signs of danger that are right in front of him:  Phil’s competent hands usually loose on the wheel are tight, white at the knuckles; a muscle in his jaw ticks despite his even breathing, and there’s tension across his shoulders apparent in the way his suit jacket seems stretched too tightly.

 

Phil wears his suits like a second skin, wears his own skin with breathtaking indifference to what anyone else might think of him.  He’s never ill at ease, never struck by the turmoil of what’s happening around them.

 

More than anything, Phil’s uneasiness scares the shit out of Clint, and he has seconds to consider a response.

 

There’s a canyon or a hair’s-breadth dividing them, depending on how it’s handled, and Clint isn’t sure whether to cross it or jump out the door when Phil slows for the next corner.

 

But Clint Barton isn’t known for taking the safe route or the easy out; his reputation lends itself to derring-do, to reckless choices that ultimately prove the right ones, if only because it’s Clint doing the choosing.

 

“I’m uncomfortable, sir,” he says, and he makes it clear in his tone to what, exactly, he’s referring.

 

Clint doesn’t have to see Phil’s eyes track to his lap to know when Phil’s caught on.  He feels the heat of his handler’s gaze, feels it like a caress along the inner seam of his field suit, and if he were any less of an agent of SHIELD or badass motherfucker, he’d moan.

 

Phil’s frustrated huff of breath is enough of an expression for the both of them, and Clint looks again at Phil’s face, tracing the furrow between his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the brighter color washing his cheeks.  Against his better judgment he follows the line of Phil’s lean body down to the place where the evidence of Phil’s desire tents the perfect lie of his trouser placket.

 

His eyes find the road again, do an assessment, follow the movement of vehicles and people.  He breathes to steady himself, to try to release some of the tension winding him up.

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t work together,” he risks after a full minute of reciting angles of trajectory and the effect of wind-speed on arrows of different weight.

 

“That’s one option,” Phil concurs, and the neutrality in his voice would sink Clint’s stomach except for what he also hears there:  reluctance, an unwillingness to let this thing between them be the end of their partnership.

 

“Others, sir?”

 

“We’re professionals, Agent Barton.”  Phil uses Clint’s title like a shield, putting distance between them.  Clint’s grateful for Phil’s strength in this regard because he’s having a difficult time reminding himself of why he shouldn’t put his hand on Phil’s thigh and stroke his inseam.

 

“Right.”

 

“Trained in self-discipline.”

 

“True.”

 

“And damned good at what we do.”

 

Since Phil’s not the bragging sort, Clint takes this for the ultimate affirmation of their value as a team.  

 

And since Clint happens to agree, Phil’s words help to loosen the tightness behind his breastbone and let him take a long, relieved breath.

 

“The world needs us, sir,” Clint confirms, and if it costs him to let go of the desire that’s at last draining from him, his voice doesn’t show it.

 

“SHIELD has rules for a reason,” Phil adds, but it’s not a cop-out; he’s not hiding behind regulations. There’s regret in his tone and something else, a certain resignation about the way things are, and Clint understands.  For as much as Clint likes to push the envelope, he respects Phil more than he disdains certain rules.

 

Fraternization is one thing; if it were only that, Clint would say fuck it.

 

But SHIELD’s protocols for handling Bonded couples are draconian in both scope and depth.  He’s not interested in being martyred that way, and he knows Phil feels the same.

 

Besides, Clint recognizes the ways in which the Bond weakens them both.

 

“We’ll have to be more careful, sir,” Clint says then, and he trusts Phil to know what he means.  They can’t have another incident like today’s, where Clint almost missed the window of opportunity on the target because he was distracted from the mission by Phil’s voice and their mutual need.

 

Clint catches Phil’s nod out of the corner of his eye and notices the way Phil’s grip on the steering wheel has eased.  

 

He also sees the regret on his face that precedes Phil’s next suggestion.

 

“We probably shouldn’t spend our off-hours together.”

 

No more take-out at three in the morning after an op.

 

No more casual drop-bys to Clint’s room or Phil’s office.

 

“No more shared range time,” Clint says aloud, though it makes his stomach roil and freezes the breath in his chest to say it.  Phil was Clint’s friend for a long time before they Bonded.  The prospect of a lot of lonely hours stretching away in the grey distance brings home exactly how much harder Clint’s going to have to make himself.

 

“No,” Phil agrees, a weight of sadness in his voice.  

 

Maybe misery loves company, but Clint finds no comfort in knowing that Phil is just as unhappy as he is about their shared future.  That’s probably what makes him start to offer, “We could…” but it’s a false hope, one too cheap to voice, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

 

Phil nods again, more decisively, his mouth a thin line.  Clint watches as Phil adjusts his worldview to discount the possibility of throwing caution to the wind and giving in to what they’re both feeling.

 

“We’ll make this work, sir,” Clint tries instead.

 

“Of course we will, Agent Barton,” Coulson answers.  “We’ll just have to be more careful.”

 

As he takes up Clint’s mantra, Coulson takes a hand off the steering wheel, turns on the CD player and turns up Tommy Dorsey. 

 

Clint keeps his eyes on the road ahead of them, watching for dangers known and unknown, and tries to find comfort in the familiar promise of this:  Phil beside him, an immovable object, and their partnership, an unstoppable force.

**Author's Note:**

> It makes sense to me that the Second Bond is characterized by unresolved sexual tension, at least where these two are concerned, but I wanted to make sure that there's a firm explanation for why they deny themselves. A long, long time ago, someone I wanted offered himself, and I said no. When he asked me why, I said, "Sometimes the things we want aren't what's best for us." That's still my answer.


End file.
